Not Talking Now That You're Here
by sevenpercent
Summary: After the return, pre-So3, Sherlock is not talking to John- not even in his Mind Palace. The reasons why may surprise you. A continuation of the "Talking" Series, with each chapter standing alone, and not necessarily in chronological order.
1. Chapter 1

**Not Talking Now that You're Here**

**Summary:** Post the return, pre-So3, Sherlock is not talking to John- not even in his Mind Palace. The reasons why may surprise you. A continuation of the "Talking" Series.

**Chapter One: Brief Encounter**

Sherlock stood on the pavement, watching the taxi carrying John and Mary drive away. For the moment, the light inside the cab was on, as John presumably gave directions to their destination. Sherlock dragged that bit of information out of the Mind Palace where he had stored it after reading Mycroft's file- south London, within walking distance of the surgery where he was working full time. His date was a nurse working there.

John didn't look at him as the taxi passed. He felt another dribble of blood slip down his upper lip, and raised the crumpled tissue again, trying to staunch the flow. As injuries went, a minor inconvenience compared with many he had endured while away.

Unbidden, a sultry voice said in his ear, "_Somebody_ loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too."

As John had specifically targeted his nose with his head butt, Sherlock could only draw the obvious conclusion. That _hurt_ more than any physical pain. Whatever confidence he'd put into his shoulders as he pulled the Belstaff back on and threw "What life?" back in his brother's face, that was now gone. The whole evening had been a disaster. His sudden premonition, felt as soon as he crossed the threshold of the restaurant, had come to ghastly fruition.

Everything he said tonight seemed to enrage John even more, and that was a surprise. He'd anticipated shock, but then delight at his 'resurrection'. After all, at the graveside, John's little speech seemed to imply that he had valued knowing him, and would miss him. He'd actually said "Please, don't be dead." So, why was John so angry when that plea was finally answered?

Sherlock knew that he was not a master when it came to figuring out the motivations of those who were closest to him. Oddly, his skills at deduction declined in direct proportion to the closeness of the person. A suspect? Simple- easy to figure them out in a moment. The criminal rarely knew Sherlock personally, and he rarely knew the criminal, except on paper or crime scene evidence. That made it easier- just let the facts speak for themselves. It appealed to his sense of the concrete. Facts didn't lie. The suspects might, but because he didn't know them, didn't care at all about them, it didn't matter. What they thought of him was equally irrelevant.

With clients and their cases, he could avoid the sticky glue of emotion that so fogged his thinking about someone with whom he lived, like John and even Mrs Hudson, or had a long history with, like his brother and Lestrade. He could always deduce the _facts_ about them; that wasn't a problem. For example, just from his choice of restaurant, it was clear that not only was John dating again, but he was treating this new woman completely differently. But even then, it was only after approaching the table in the disguise of the waiter that Sherlock spotted the tell-tale bulge in John's jacket pocket- just the size of a jewellery box. He then realised that he was gate-crashing a marriage proposal. _A bit not good._ John had been tetchy at the best of times when he'd interfered with his routine dates. 'Timing!' had been something of a routine rant of his.

Deducing emotions was different. And other people's motivations regarding him in particular were almost impossible to fathom. So, he never voluntarily ventured into talking about emotions, just hoping that he wouldn't ruin things too much if he kept his mouth shut. Once he'd realised how much he valued John's being a part of his life, he had lived in dread that something he would do or say would cause the man to leave. Not that he'd ever admit something like that. _Caring is not an advantage._ Or, at least, talking about caring was certainly a problem. What would happen if declaring an emotion could be used against him? His brother's solution seemed simpler. _Don't get involved._ With Mycroft, Sherlock had raised that strategy to the point of an art form. Avoid him whenever possible, and never, ever admit to caring about what his brother thought, lest it be turned against Sherlock into some new way to control him.

So, as he stood next to the table, trying to get John's attention before the date returned from the loo, he'd been torn. Anxiety about what his friend's reaction would be gave him second thoughts. Should he just escape before John realised who he was? He had the chance when he walked off, muttering "Certainly endeavouring to, sir."

He could pass a bottle to another waiter and ask for it to be delivered to the table. On the other hand, as he pulled the best vintage champagne on the wine list out of its slot in the chiller, Sherlock reasoned that it might be better to carry through with it now than later, if his return could make a material difference to John's decision about the woman. And he had no idea whether it would, or not. He realised in that moment that he had no inkling what John was feeling or thinking. The man sitting at the table was a stranger to him. Sherlock could not deduce the probable reaction to his return. He'd stood by, as John read through the menu trying to decide on whether he could afford one of the mid- priced champagne or if his date- no, his intended fiancé- knew enough about champagne to judge him a cheapskate if he chose the house NV. He could deduce from John's clothing, his demeanour, his –_oh my God it looks awful_\- moustache that things had changed, but he knew nothing of what had happened to John over the past two years. And without those facts, he suddenly felt horribly unsure.

But, what if he missed his chance? He'd waited two years to explain himself to John. Could he just walk away? If he did that, would he ever be brave enough? Standing there looking at the label of the champagne as other waiters moved around him without a glance, Sherlock decided that if he'd been willing to take the risk to save John's life in the first place, he rather owed it to himself to carry through with the reunion now.

With the advantage of hindsight now, he knew he'd made the wrong choice by going back to the table once John's date returned. Once John recognised him, whatever Sherlock said made things go from bad to worse. John had attacked him. Repeatedly. With each new venue they went to, things just deteriorated further. The one surprise was that the intended fiancé did not react in the way he expected, by trying to get John away from him. In fact, Mary had been the one to insist on moving to a new restaurant and getting John to calm down enough to re-start the conversation. But all it had done was hand him more rope with which to hang himself.

The first stop was when John had said he didn't care how, but only wanted to know _why_. Sherlock had tried to fall back to a comfort zone, wanting to get some recognition from John about how clever the ruse had been. But, in response to his mentioning the thirteen scenarios, this time there was no 'amazing' or 'fantastic' forthcoming. No acceptance at all, no appreciation, nothing but anger. Enough for John to rage at him at the top of his lungs and tell the whole world who he was and that he was back. Two years of keeping his identity a secret made Sherlock particularly anxious about that, and he'd had to raise his voice to get John to understand that.

In a final bid to get John past his anger, he'd tried to draw on what he had always understood as being the heart of John's attraction to their shared life- that he 'd missed the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline kick of the case work. And that had provoked the head-butt bloodying his nose.

He'd run out of words. John had simply walked out, saying to Mary that he was going to get them a cab, and to meet him on the pavement. In a bit of daze, Sherlock followed. To his surprise Mary had been…kind. She said that she would "talk him round." Clearly, whatever he said seemed only to enrage John, so he was going to have to rely on her as intermediary. That made him deduce her, quickly- he needed to know whether he could trust her. Sherlock then discovered that she was a liar, but knew somehow, instinctively, that it wasn't about her promise to get John to see things differently. He was still mulling that over when the taxi drew up and she got in the back. He was still thinking it through after the taxi had turned the corner and disappeared from view.

The bleeding appeared to have stopped now. In fact, the wounds on his back from Serbia were more painful; stifling his defensive reactions, allowing John to knock him to the floor of the first restaurant wasn't his most brilliant decision. Sherlock looked one way down the pavement. That way would take him towards Belgravia, where his brother would be sitting up waiting for him, wearing that smug _I-told-you-so_ face of his. The other way led to New Scotland Yard, where he wondered if Lestrade might still be working. There was someone who didn't expect him to talk much. Forewarned by John's reception, Sherlock wondered if the DI might punch him. He put the tissue in his pocket and strode off in that direction.


	2. Chapter 2

**Not Talking Now that You're Here**

**Chapter Two**

* * *

**Author's note: ** This story takes place AFTER my _Pocketful of Rye_ story arc in _Got My Eye on You_, after _Devonshire Squires_ and after _Magpie: One for Sorrow_

* * *

He cracks one eye open, and immediately regrets it. Sunlight drives a spike of pain right through his retina, ricocheting with a whine somewhere deep in his brain. It is streaming in through the kitchen window, which tells him that it is morning, not afternoon.

But,_ which _morning_? _ When had he fallen asleep? After days and nights of chronic insomnia, Sherlock's sense of time is completely distorted. His morphine and cocaine use during the Devonshire Squires case has shifted his mental tectonic plates. Ever since he'd gotten back from Hartswood Manor, he's been dealing with the aftershocks of memory impairment, mood disorder, lack of concentration and an inability to take decisions. Lestrade wasn't willing to test his stamina with anything interesting- the case work had been thin and boring, making him even more frustrated. All of it added up to cognitive tremors, and he knows he is building up to the inevitable earthquake. Waiting for something to happen led to agitation- and that made sleep impossible, so he'd given up on it at five o'clock and tried to get himself interested in an experiment.

To shut out the sunlight, he tries to close his eye but it has a life of its own and is intent on focusing on the half-completed slide set only a few centimetres away from where his head had come to rest on the table.

Sherlock tries to think, but the process is complicated by the buzz saw of headache that is putting a flavour and sound to the texture of the cheap wood of the table pressing into his cheek. Given the crick in his neck, he must have slept right through the entire day and night; it feels far too stiff to have been just a few hours. His ears hear the sigh that accompanies this realisation as a sharp metallic tang on his tongue.

Withdrawal is a complicated process. The people around him over the years had come to fixate on the first days, when the physical effects were visibly obvious. But for him, as awful as those were, it was the aftermath that was worse. After the initial physical symptoms were over and done with, he's always had to ride out the waves of post-acute withdrawal syndrome. And this morning was the first hint of the tsunami of synaesthesia yet to come.

He hears a groan that comes with a lime tinged taste, and knows intuitively that it had come from him even though he has no conscious thought of making the sound. Sherlock wonders if he has the strength to find his way down the corridor to his bedroom. But he lacks the motivation to make the decision, let alone translate it into action.

_Executive dysfunction._ He can hear Esther Cohen's diagnosis echoing down a corridor of his mind palace- the one that smells of hospital disinfectant. There is a separate door on that corridor for every time he's been in hospital, and the entire wing is full of terrors. Needless to say, he prefers to keep entry to that area under a double electronic lock, with a fingerprint pad needed for access. He might not be able to delete any of those memories, but he is certainly not letting anyone but himself the right of access.

A metronome starts ticking- a slow tempo in purple, alternating with grey. Then there is a squeak of electric blue. Through the sensory fog, he recognises the footsteps coming up the stairs; Mrs Hudson reaching the tell-tale seventh floorboard.

"Hoo- hoo; Sherlock, I'm back."

Deciphering the meaning of that statement takes him the whole time from when it is uttered on the landing to the moment Mrs Hudson reaches the living room. Eventually he remembers that she had gone away on the early train to visit her sister on an overnight trip- that was yesterday. So that confirms that at least twenty four hours have elapsed since he fell asleep, head down on the kitchen table.

This time his groan is gooseberry, tart with reproach. When he's this far gone, his ability to interact is very limited, and the thought of talking with Mrs Hudson is impossible. Doctor Cohen's voice speaks again ("_psychosocial impairment; Sherlock, you know that means you have to try to focus more.")_ It is strange that the voices in his head are so much easier to understand than the one that just spoke to him from the living room. Sherlock knows his current inability to speak will create an opportunity to upset all and sundry, including his landlady as she comes around the corner to see him sitting at the table.

"Oh dear. You didn't fall asleep there, did you?" She bustles into the kitchen.

Sherlock tries to access his drop-down menu of scripts- the one titled "Responses-Mrs Hudson"- but gets an error message. Nothing is working properly in the Mind Palace, not even the most basic oral communication programmes.

He tries to lift his head, but can't control the muscles from cramping viciously, and he hisses in pain. Sherlock forces his eyes to focus on the pattern of the dress worn by the woman standing beside the table. He can't angle his eyes to see her face, even if he'd wanted to, so he doesn't. A noise escapes his lips, more a whine this time, certainly nothing approaching speech.

"Oh Sherlock, you look terrible. Are you coming down with something? Let me get you some tea."

Sherlock watches the pattern on her dress fragment and reform by the kitchen sink as his brain tries to grapple with the disconnected sounds that bear no relationship to one another. He tries to re-configure them as words with meaning. Do they require a response? Would he be able to formulate one? He doubts it.

Meanwhile, his autonomic nervous system responds to the presence of another human being by driving up his respiratory rate, speeding up his heartbeat and making him swallow in an already dry mouth. Fight or flight? The pain down his throat takes priority for just a moment, but then beats a hasty retreat as he levers himself into an upright sitting position, and props his aching head onto numb hands. Flight might just be possible.

The room seems to rock and sway as if he were on a ship, but slowly the stimulation of random noises to his left shape themselves into the sound of a kettle being filled, cupboards being opened and the clash of china as a cup finds its way into a saucer. He wonders whether he can use the horror of the noise as a way to make his retreat to the bedroom actually happen.

Esther is now tutting at him. "_You know the symptoms of post-acute withdrawal syndrome. PAWS is a persisting physiological consequence of the central nervous system adjusting to the drug related disturbance in neurotransmitters, and the resulting hyper-excitability of neural pathways._"

He wants to snark back at her, something along the lines of knowing what it is makes it no easier to bear. But, he can't even talk in the confines of his own Mind Palace; words fail him even as a cognitive construct. When he's this bad, talking is simply beyond him.

Instead, Sherlock lurches forward, putting his weight onto his right arm and then pushing the chair backwards with his left as he suddenly stands up. The chair tips over backwards as he staggers off down the hallway toward the bathroom. He hears a startled yelp from Mrs Hudson at the crash of the chair onto the floor. He knows he has only moments before the vertigo and vestibular imbalance make him throw up, and he has to reach the toilet before it happens. The bedroom will have to come later.

Moments later, when he is congratulating himself on making it to the loo in time, there is a soft tap at the bathroom door.

"Sherlock? Please talk to me. What's wrong?"

He could no more answer her than he could fly to the moon. It was a physical impossibility, an unbridgeable chasm of non-communication.

Sherlock's lack of reply doesn't seem to deter Mrs Hudson who continues speaking on the other side of the door. "Your phone just rang; you left it on the kitchen table. I answered it, because I could see from the caller ID that it was John. He's coming over. I told him you were feeling a bit under the weather, but he wants to talk to you about something, and this is the first chance in almost a week that he's had the morning off. He'll be here in about an hour."

Sherlock couldn't find any words to say to her in time, before she gives up and walks away. He listens to her footsteps going down the stairs. Not talking when Mrs Hudson is there doesn't really matter- his landlady always makes up for his silence by talking too much. He just filters it out.

But John is different. The woman's meddling means that the one person he really does want to talk to is on his way to Baker Street, just when he is totally mute.

The thought distresses him. They'd not had a proper conversation since he'd returned from Hartswood. During the few paltry cases since then, they'd been cautious around each other, and Sherlock kept his focus on the detective work. John had been coming to Baker Street to see Diane Goodliffe for EMDR therapy, but it made him tense and uncomfortable. The presence of a third party on those occasions made it hard, too.

So, if John is coming today, then he needs to take advantage of the opportunity. Sherlock looks at his haggard reflection in the mirror. He is going to have to have a bath, shave and get dressed. But he knows that none of that will be enough.

There is only one solution for it. If he is going to be able to talk to John, he will have to resort to some chemical lubrication. He crouches down and reaches under the sink, finding the tile- the one that used toothpaste instead of mortar to hold it in place. Colour matched perfectly, but with one good tap, his secret stash yielded its prize.

Cocaine will loosen his tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

**Not Talking Now That You're Here**

**Chapter Three**

* * *

It is the red line, across which he had promised himself he wouldn't go.

That is the problem with executive functioning— it always seems to abandon him just when he needs it the most. He is not even aware of crossing the line until hours later, when he sees it miles behind him.

_Needs must._ Sherlock has already used up everything else, getting ready for John's appearance. But three nicotine patches under the long sleeved shirt, and a strong black coffee are not even making a dent in his lethargy, so he raids his stash under the bathroom sink. The drug cocktail—a combination of 4F-MPH and cocaine—is enough to get him shaved, washed, dressed and vaguely presentable, in his camel cashmere dressing gown.

On the spur of the moment, he defrosts an eyeball in the microwave and makes up a series of experiments on the optic nerve so that he will appear to be busy. Must not _appear_ to be depressed. Appearances are everything, and he is a past master at disguising what he is really thinking when in the presence of John Watson.

As this is his first occasion of taking the 4F-MPH, he writes a few notes about it, under the guise of the eyeball work. It is one of the latest modified ritalins, apparently 2-3 times more potent. Although he isn't feeling much of that yet, it promises longer duration of action and with a more forgiving comedown compared to the parent molecule. If he gets lucky, Lestrade might call with a case just as John is with him, so he wants to plan ahead for the possibility of spending five or six hours in John's company. That idea alone is enough stimulation to get his endorphins going.

One reported side effect is dehydration, so he fixes himself a mug of tea, in anticipation. Unlike cocaine, 4F-MPH has the virtue of still being seen as a legal high. Not that the distinction would have any meaning to the various people who like to think that his sobriety or lack of it is a matter of their concern. Still, 4F-MPH is simpler to manufacture and therefore lower in cost- both financial and in terms of sources attracting unwanted attention. This is not the stuff sold by street corner dealers.

It does take rather longer to come into effect, however, while the joys of IV cocaine are more instantaneous.

Sherlock is not a patient man. So he starts things off with just a small bump of seven percent solution. The 4F-MPH will counter-act the pupil dilation of cocaine- so he'll look less under the influence. _A win-win solution._

When he hears the front door onto Baker Street banging closed, his heart rate jumps. Partly the effect of the drugs now hitting peak perfection, but he also knows that adrenaline is playing a role, too. John does that to him, even now. A voice in his Mind Palace that sounds like Mycroft sneers "_how pathetic_, but he chooses to ignore it. The euphoric stimulation of drugs combined with John just overrides any residual inhibitions. He is determined to _enjoy_ this opportunity; he's had too little of that pleasure lately.

But when the hoped for footsteps on the stairs do not materialise, he grumpily walks to the landing to listen. John is talking to Mrs Hudson downstairs in her kitchen. Jealous of _his_ John time spent being with another, Sherlock sniffs and marches back into the flat's kitchen. He slips on the safety goggles that he never wears unless John is there to chastise him. Lighting the blow torch creates a roar that extinguishes the sound of her raucous laughter. Sherlock rather savagely stabs at the eyeball with his tongs and starts to incinerate the optic nerve.

When John comes into the flat's living room, Sherlock asks rather abruptly, "What was that noise downstairs?" Even to his ears, he sounds petulant and jealous.

"Er, it was Mrs Hudson laughing."

"Sounded like she was torturing an owl." He's not sure why he chose that analogy; he's never tortured a bird, nor heard of one being tortured. It just slips out of his mouth.

"Yeah, well, it was laughter."

Relieved that John isn't reacting to such a weird statement, Sherlock adds rather defensively, "Could have been both."

"Busy?"

"Just occupying myself. Sometimes it is…" Sherlock looks up at the ceiling with a histrionic sigh, "…so-o-o hard not smoking." He hopes that John will put any oddities in his behaviour down to nicotine withdrawal. He is sure that John will remember how extreme his behaviour had been when he'd tried to quit before, just as they'd gone off to Baskerville. Misdirection might mask the effects of the two drugs beating a delicious rhythm in his bloodstream. He can just feel the dopamine levels starting to climb. _Bliss._

For the first time in several days, Sherlock is close to feeling normal—well, as normal as he is capable of feeling these days. Waving the eyeball around to illustrate his point has a drawback, however, as it falls out of the tongs and drops into Sherlock's mug of tea with a splash. A surprised "Oh" is all he can muster.

To his credit, John doesn't laugh, so Sherlock doesn't either. Now that the drugs are working he is able to focus his attention. Sherlock can pick up the social cues, and mirror behaviour. He starts to relax, until he looks more closely at the expression on John's face.

In fact, John looks rather serious, a deduction confirmed when he goes on to ask, "Mind if I interrupt?"

So, he wants a _formal_ invitation? Is that what their relationship has become? An electric jolt of doubt creeps in to dull Sherlock's euphoria. Where is the ease that had once allowed the two men to live side by side without worrying about conventions and social niceties? Stifling a sigh, Sherlock gestures to the chair at the end of the kitchen table. "Be my guest."

If that is how John wants to play things, Sherlock's drug-induced civility can play along. He could do this sort of thing. He switches off the blow torch, picks up the mug of tea and offers it to John. "Tea?" he said brightly, hoping that he's found the right balance between upbeat and manic.

John seems amused but declines the offer, so Sherlock puts his mug down and takes off his safety googles. As it was John's decision to visit, Sherlock knows that the rules of conversation mean that he should wait for John to start.

"So. The big question."

John says that phrase in a portentous tone, almost as if he's rehearsed it. Sherlock freezes. He lacks enough data to be certain what the _big_ question is about. Has the doctor seen the fact that he is high? Is he going to ask why? He offers a noncommittal "Mm-hm" as a way to stall. He tries to still his thudding heartbeat, to stay calm. It would not do to run to the worst case scenario.

John clasps his hands together in front of him on the table- a formal posture, which Sherlock deduces is masking nervousness. Why is John nervous? The fact that he can't deduce the answer to that question makes Sherlock nervous, too.

"The best man."

Sherlock's confusion deepens. John is clearly expecting him to say something in reaction to that statement, but he has absolutely no idea what he is supposed to say.

"The best man?" Retreating into repetition, Sherlock hopes that John won't accuse him of echolalia. Mycroft used to do that all the time, telling him that he would never repeat himself, as a form of corrective therapy. "You'll just have to listen better, little brother." In this case, he has listened, but that makes no difference. At least, Sherlock gives the requisite upward inflection to the end of the repeated last word, so John should realise that he is seeking clarification.

But instead of explaining, the doctor then compounds Sherlock's difficulties by asking another question. "What do you think?"

At this precise moment Sherlock's drug-fuelled brain is spinning at a hundred miles a minute considering all sorts of things. The idea of cataloging all of his thoughts to his former flatmate seems bizarre in the extreme. So he deduces that John expected him to know exactly what he was getting at, and that he expected Sherlock to have a definitive answer. In neither case is the doctor's expectation valid.

Sherlock's mouth goes dry and he wonders whether he should brave a sip from the mug of tea, despite the eyeball in it. No that wouldn't do. Deconstructing John's question, he defines best — foremost, principal, unexcelled, peerless— and realises that the doctor wants his opinion about who is the man who conforms to this ideal. Utterly floored for a moment, he blurts out the first thing that comes into his mind when he puts the adjective _best _together with the noun _man_.

"Billy Kincaid."

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock's grammar check programme slips to the front of his mind, and he has to bite his tongue so that he doesn't blurt out "not a _what_, a _who_." Instead, he repeats that Billy Kincaid, the Camden Garotter was the best man he'd ever known.

For some reason, this provokes a frown from John, and Sherlock worries. Has he said something wrong? Is John hoping that Sherlock would say that John was the best man he'd ever known? It is true, but he's not deduced this as the motive behind John's question. Sherlock tries to swallow, and finds that he does not have enough saliva to make it possible. Why would John be fishing for compliments in this way?

Digging deeper into the hole he's made for himself, Sherlock elaborates rapidly, "Personally managed to save three hospitals from closure and ran the best and safest children's homes in north England."

Somehow this answer doesn't satisfy the doctor, who scrubs his fingers over his eyes. Sherlock has come to associate this gesture with a feeling of frustration and impatience, but for the life of him, he cannot figure out what is provoking this reaction from John.

It all depends on what John means by "best", of course. Sherlock has surmised that John's moral compass tolerates some criminality (after all, he had shot Jeff Hope) so long as the ends are deemed to be worthwhile. And while Kincaid had some issues with particular individuals whom he dispatched with a cheese wire, the man had single-handedly saved three hospitals from closure. That should have appealed to the doctor in John, but it has not. All this is deduced in a split second.

He tries again. "Yes, every now and again there'd be some garrottings, but stacking up the lives saved against the garrottings, on balance I'd say ..."

John interrupts, saying forcefully "For my wedding! For _me_. I need a best man."

Sherlock thinks about this and comes up blank. What man would be _best_ in the context of a wedding? He knows nothing about weddings, having never attended a single one in his life. He buys himself a little time by offering a non-committal, "Oh, right." It's one of his scripted responses, offered when he really hasn't a clue what is going on but deduces that some response, some acknowledgement is needed that the other person is in charge of the conversation.

It is a form of begging for more explanation, which John promptly gives. "Maybe not a garrotter."

So, Sherlock deduces that this person needs to be someone who will be attending John and Mary's wedding. That eliminates a large number of possible candidates, so he starts with one whom he knows John respects.

"Gavin?"

"Who?"

"Gavin Lestrade? He's a man, and good at it?" As he said it, even to his ears, the statement sounds odd—it betrays the fact that he has no idea what would be "best" in the context of a wedding guest. Is this some strange ritual, choosing someone amongst the guests who should be seen as "best"? Still, at least John knows Lestrade. However, this sends Sherlock's mind ricocheting off in another direction. How does one choose who to invite to one's wedding? What are the criteria? Perhaps Mary does not want a detective inspector attending her wedding. Is this the reason why John's face suddenly looks pained? Sherlock feels like he is watching a foreign film in a language he doesn't know, without the benefit of subtitles. A thin wedge of anxiety begins to take the edge off his euphoria.

John flexes his clasped fingers and looks back down at the table top, his annoyance evident even to Sherlock in his befuddled state. "It's Greg. And he's not my best friend." At this last phrase, John looks back up at Sherlock, with a trace of a smirk, as if he is amused by the way the conversation was going.

Sherlock has Lestrade's first name on permanent delete, for professional reasons*, so he ignores that part of John's statement. Instead he realises that John has just given him the key criterion, so he gives a long "Oh," as if in sudden comprehension, following it with, "Mike Stamford, I see. Well, he's nice, um, though I'm not sure how well he'd cope with all ..." He is about to add in "his teaching commitments in the USA this term." Stamford is on research leave in the US, at Maryland's Johns Hopkins University.

John interrupts that explanation, rather impatiently; "No, Mike's great, but _he's_ not my best friend." He opens his hands for emphasis, and he is now sounding a tiny bit annoyed, which ratchets up the pressure on Sherlock.

Time slows to a crawl. He has little real exposure to the concept of friends, let alone _best_ friends. He's read about the concept of friends, of course, but not had much experience. The one time he'd ventured to use the word friend to refer to John when introducing the doctor to Sebastian Wilkes, John had rejected it. Later John had been willing to endure the phrase, even used it himself occasionally, calling himself Sherlock's friend. But Sherlock's not used the word himself again, not after that correction.

Whatever he might understand about the theory of friendship, Sherlock has even less experience of the concept of a "best" friend.

He struggles to understand what might have happened in John's estimation to oust Mike Stamford from that role. Perhaps because he'd moved to the USA- out of sight, out of mind? In a blinding flash of realisation, Sherlock recognises that he knows almost nothing about what has happened to John over the previous two years. He'd been slightly facetious in his "what life? I've been away" jibe at Mycroft when his brother rubbed in the fact that John had moved on in his life. But it is true. While Sherlock was away, John has acquired a new job, a new flat, a new fiancé, so the idea of him also accumulating a new best friend is distinctly possible. Perhaps he resumed contact with his army friends, or returned to being a rugby fan; maybe one of the other doctors at the surgery has become a close friend with whom he and Mary could both socialise.

A piece of him is now seriously panicking. Is this yet another case of John pointing out to Sherlock just how much he has changed? Sherlock does not understand why else John would come to him to discuss the wedding guest list, nor who was the best male on it. He knew for certain that he would be the _worst_ guest on the list, if in the end he can actually muster the courage to attend. Mary has already made it clear that she expects him to be there, which might also explain why John might feel an odd compulsion to talk about other invitees with him.

Sherlock has tried to explain that weddings aren't really his thing. Maybe this whole conversation is a method of telling him what standards of behaviour he will be expected to reach as a guest, or tell him that they've decided it would be better if he didn't attend. In fact, that would be a conclusion so welcome to Sherlock that he'd find it hard to disguise his relief. The process is giving him a monstrous headache, although that might be a reaction to the 4F-MPH, he decides.

Then abruptly, Sherlock is back standing beside the kitchen table, looking down at John in confusion as the man said, "Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day of my life."

He could think of at least a half dozen other more significant occasions, starting with being born, choosing to go to medical school, then John's first day in the army, or the day the doctor was shot, or even perhaps a certain day in a lab at Barts. Any one of those is a stronger candidate than an arbitrary date set for a party to celebrate two people who already lived together obtaining legal status through an obscure series of rituals. He pulls a face. "Well…"

John instantly shuts him off, pointing his finger and stating firmly, "No, it is! It is, and I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world."

Sherlock hears this, and sees the expectant look on John's face. But he doesn't understand, so he falls back on what his mother had always taught him was an acceptable stalling tactic. "Just agree, say that you understand what the other person has said, even if you are not entirely sure. That will allow them to go on and give you more information, so you can figure it out."

So, he pulls out his "Yes" and gives it to John, all the while trying to figure out who else the man loved, whom he wants to see "up there beside him" as "best" man. His sister Harry is the obvious candidate for the love, but as a woman she didn't fit the "man" part of the term. For a split second, Sherlock wondered if this is what John is being coy about- at some point over the past two years had Harry transitioned to being a man?

Sherlock decides that discretion is needed, so he waits for John to tell him.

"So, Mary Morstan ..." and then the seated man pauses, as if waiting for Sherlock to fill in the gap. Sherlock rolls out his encouraging "Yes" again—acknowledging as a given that John would say that he loved Mary. He waits for the other person's name.

For some reason, this waiting seems to irritate John, who sighs before offering "... and ..." as if prompting Sherlock to come up with a name. But Sherlock does not want to betray his ignorance about what had happened during his two years away. Either John has found a new best friend to supplant Mike Stamford, or it is Harry.

The silence lengthens. Eventually John draws in a deep breath and says, "…You."

That word stops time in its tracks. His perception of reality fractures, and he sees himself from a distance, not as one person but two, and then another split happens and there are four Sherlocks, each standing in a different corridor of his Mind Palace. Rival channels of thought occurring simultaneously, each contending for control. He's in the middle, spinning to look down each corridor and the Sherlock who was standing there. It is most disconcerting. For a moment, he panics, wondering if the drug combination has somehow provoked a psychotic break. _Am I going mad?_

"May I draw your attention to the fact that you seem to have lost control of your eyelids?"

He turns to see a version of him looking at him with disdain.

"Really, this sort of physical stimming is just pathetic."

Sherlock becomes aware that his eyelashes are fluttering, without any voluntary decision being made to do so.

This Sherlock's lip curls in a sneer. "Don't pretend. We both know that there's nothing wrong with your vision- you can see John's face looking at you."

It was true—John is staring at him with a strange mixture of expectancy, laced with a tinge of irritation, which slowly turns into concern, too. There is no grit in Sherlock's eye, no propensity to tears, yet the fluttering of his eyes continues.

Back in his Mind Palace, the other Sherlock has crept beside him and now whispers in his ear.

"Spontaneous eye blink rate is a marker of central dopaminergic functioning, which controls interactions between the prefrontal cortex and the basal ganglia."

Sherlock wonders, is the 4F-MPH interfering with his normal functioning in some way?

There is a disdainful sniff at his shoulder.

"Don't pretend ignorance. You've read how recreational users of cocaine can suffer from reduced dopamine D2 receptors in the striatum, which means that you need more time to inhibit responses than non-users." There is a tiny pause and then a caustic question, "What response are you trying to inhibit?"

It was a good question, and Sherlock did not have an answer. He didn't even understand the question. What was John actually asking?

"Ahem. Work it out."

This command is uttered in his own baritone. His attention pivots to the right hand corridor where one of the four Sherlocks is standing with his arms crossed and a slightly superior look on his face.

This Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It isn't rocket science. Make sense of the word 'you'."

John's use of the word had been unambiguous- he was clearly referring to Sherlock. But what did that actually mean?

"Oh, for God's sake. Work it backwards. There's Mary Morstan, whom John identified as one of the two people he wanted to be up there with."

What does _that_ mean? Up _where_? No clue.

His avatar narrows his eyes and sighs pointedly. "You are not thinking logically."

He considers the other part of the phrase, "the two people that I love and care about most in the world." That both verbs applied to Mary was obvious.

Again, he gets an eye roll followed by a snarky, "If John did not love her, then he would not be marrying her. Get on with it." This version of him starts to tap his fingers and gives Sherlock a pointed look.

Bewildered, Sherlock tries to understand how he could possibly be included in that phrase.

A dry baritone echoes down the corridor of the Mind Palace, "You are distinctly unlovable, so let's just dismiss that part of the sentence as irrelevant. Narrow it down; it must be in reference to the "care about" bit. Obvious, really; after all, John was willing to shoot Jeff Hope, so he must _care_ in some way about you."

He argues back at himself, "But why—or rather how—can that be manifested at a wedding? Does he want me there because he thinks he's protecting me from some sort of danger?"

"Clearly. After Hartswood, he thinks you've got suicidal inclinations. So he pities you enough to want to keep an eye on you while he can, before he disappears into wedded bliss. Once he's safely married to her, he can then get on with his life, without you."

"So, this is just, what? Manipulation?"

"_Finally_, the penny is dropping. By getting you involved in the wedding, John is looking for validation of his choice. You've participated, therefore you must approve. All the people who knew you together with him are being shown that John is doing the right thing. They will assume that you have accepted the fact that he is moving on in his life— and that's away from you, by the way."

"Does it have to end that way?" He cannot keep the despair from his question.

"I give up." The logical Sherlock stalks off down the corridor in a huff.

"_Stop this!_ You're just making it worse!"

To his left, down the corridor another Sherlock is standing with his back turned and shoulders slumped. This one looks younger, no…he's actually in the state of mind that Sherlock had been in when he woke up this morning—confused, depressed, distressed. Is the eye blink just a return of the childhood tic he used to manifest when confronted with stressful situations?

"Don't you remember? One of those stupid doctors Mummy took us to see. He said blinking is our way of limiting visual stimuli to give our brain time to catch up when we are stressed. It's no big deal. Just another physical manifestation of our defectiveness."

This Sherlock won't turn around to look at him. In a resigned tone, he asks, "_Why_ would John say this? What does it mean? What does he expect from us? We don't _do_ friends, remember?"

The avatar's questions bring back memories. The whole topic of friendship has always been a minefield and he needs to try to process the intent behind John's word rather than the word itself. He is suddenly afraid— afraid of getting it wrong, making a mistake, misunderstanding what is being said and what he should be doing.

This realisation brings a slightly hysterical laugh out of the Sherlock down the corridor. He puts a hand out to the wall, as if holding himself from falling. "You're going to do what you always do, mess it up. You thought you were doing the thing that John would respect you for, the noble thing, what a friend would do to protect their friend, and look what happened. You've come home to find that you destroyed the very idea of friendship." This Sherlock's voice sounds increasingly ragged, as if he's trying not to cry. "If he's doing this now, it's because he pities you. Push him away, make a joke, laugh at how sentimental the very idea of friendship is; remind him that you are married to your work."

There is a gasp from behind Sherlock, and he turns to look down the last of the four corridors.

This Sherlock is on his knees. "Feel this? Remember it?"

Suddenly, as if someone had thrown a switch, Sherlock's senses are on full alert, riding a wave of anxiety. His stomach clenches.

Between panting breaths, the Sherlock down the corridor grunts out, "Fight or flight reaction… norephinephrine and cortisol…increasing pulse…pushing blood into muscles…deep breaths."

Behind him again, the sneering Sherlock can't resist. "Pathetic, isn't it? One word from him and you just go to pieces."

Maybe because of the visceral reactions, Sherlock's hearing now focuses in on a sound of a shoe scraping against wooden floorboard. John has started tapping his foot. Eyes focus ever so briefly on the doctor's face, and Sherlock can see that the expression is now becoming more concerned than expectant.

Sherlock's eyes zoom into focus on John's mouth as a word is uttered, which he hears as if slowed down to half speed. "Sh…er….lo…ck…" The word echoes in his hippocampus, connecting up to all the other times the man has said the word, the different intonations attached. Memories flood into the front of Sherlock's mind— his name shouted by John in despair, in fear, in exasperation, as an attempt to get his attention. Yes…that must be what John is attempting to do now. The word is given meaning, but it still doesn't allow him to break free of this fugue of contending Sherlocks, the perfect storm that has seized his brain and brought him to this state of speechlessness.

He registers the fact that John has spoken again. "That's getting a bit scary now."

If it's scary for John, it is positively terrifying for Sherlock. A hefty dose of adrenaline appears out of nowhere to break the stalemate in his Mind Palace. The four contending avatars disappear and Sherlock becomes aware of himself again. He takes a shaky breath, swallowing reflexively and narrowing his eyes slightly as he refocuses on John. Words reappear in his mind, and he finds that he is able to speak them, even if he has to swallow hard, and blink slowly before he can start.

"So, in fact ..."

He may be capable of words, but putting them together in a sentence is still beyond him. Sherlock tries again.

"You-you mean ..."

When he runs out of steam, John offers an encouraging "Yes."

"I'm your ..." and grinds to a halt for the second time. He still cannot manage to put a sentence together.

John nods again. He's smiling, almost smirking, as if he is enjoying Sherlock's confusion.

The word finally escapes Sherlock's lips: "... best ..."

John completes the sentence with the word "man", just as Sherlock says "friend?" There is incredulity in his question.

This seems to surprise John. "Yeah, 'course you are." He's watching Sherlock, seeing his silence, so he repeats it, 'Course, you're my best friend."

John says this as if it were a given, a fact. Sherlock's cognitive tectonic plates shift, and in the earthquake he loses the power of speech again. To find something to do while his brain re-boots, he picks up his mug from the table and starts to take a sip of tea. Sherlock's eyes do not leave John's, as he draws the liquid into his mouth. He sees John's rapt, almost bemused expression, as he takes a big slurp of tea.

"Well, how was that?"

The taste in his mouth was definitely smoky, and it had a bit more edge to it than before. A bit like a strong Lapsang Souchong.

"Surprisingly okay."

He's just starting to recover his equilibrium when John adds something new.

"So, you'll have to make a speech, of course."

Sherlock stares at him, driven into silence again.

Eventually, he manages to stutter out a "Wh…why?"

"That's what a best man does. At the wedding. Well, after the wedding, actually. At the reception; it's tradition."

"Oh."

John seems highly amused that for once Sherlock was incapable of having the last word. "Just think of it as a bit like when you were in the witness stand at the Old Bailey. Only this time, try not to end up getting arrested for contempt of court."

He deduces that the doctor is being facetious, and that in fact the speech should bear little resemblance to that had happened in court. And Sherlock tries hard to ignore the memory of that particular attempt ending in a prison cell. "What am I supposed to say?"

"You're the detective. Do your research."

John gets up, biting his lip, clearly finding it hard not to laugh. "I've got to get home; I'm on KP tonight; Mary's expecting me to cook dinner and hand her a glass of wine when she gets home after work. "

He is at the door to the stairs before Sherlock manages to get out a word.

"John." He puts in every bit of uncertainty, anxiety and confusion that he could pack into that one word.

The smile on the doctor's face softens. "Relax, Sherlock. You'll be fine."

And with that, he clatters down the stairs.

Sherlock runs to his laptop to find out what the hell a 'best man' is in the context of a wedding.

oOo

While riding his high down all the rest of the evening, Sherlock tries to understand what John is asking him to be and to do at the wedding. He is still baffled by the whole conversation. He has no idea, having never attended a wedding before. And while his fingers tap the keyboard to search on Best Man, he tries to comprehend the significance of the adjective "best" in the context of the noun "friend". As someone who'd never thought of himself as being capable of being someone's friend at all, the idea of being promoted to "best" confuses him. What social obligations come with such a thing?

One website lists thirty one items on the checklist of "Best Man's Duties", a number of which he doesn't understand. What is a "ring bearer" and why does the site mention "child" in the same sentence? What is a "groomsman"? The more he reads, the more he knows instinctively that this is going to end in disaster. He will do something wrong. And when he does, then John will cease to consider him to be his friend, let alone the superlative of "best" friend. He will be the one responsible for ruining John and Mary's wedding. The thought makes his mouth dry up and his stomach clench again. Far from helping him get through this conversation, the drugs seem to be exacerbating every one of his foibles, insecurities and cognitive defects.

He's lost in a pit of despond when he re-connects with the item on the screen that lists the "Best man's speech", which leaves him speechless.

Mrs Hudson bustles in at some point and chatters to him from the kitchen, but he can't find the words to answer her. He registers a squeak of "disgusting" and deduces this might be due to her finding the eyeball in the tea mug, but then loses interest again and isn't even aware of when she leaves.

The more he reads about what a Best Man's speech is, the more anxious he becomes. To stand exposed in front of an audience, proposing a toast to the happiness of the couple? He'd rather strip naked and walk out of Buckingham Palace. In fact, that is a damn sight easier to contemplate than to have a room full of people he didn't know looking at him, expecting him to give a coherent monologue on why John Watson should be getting married. As if he would do such a thing, willingly. Delivering his own funeral eulogy would be easier.

He has said to both of them that he is happy for them. Sherlock _wants_ John to be happy, and as this marriage is what he wants, Sherlock cannot possibly object, given that he now understands how unhappy he made John when he went off as Lars Sigurson. But there is a world of difference between saying that privately to the couple, and doing so on a public stage.

Because John has asked him to, he knows he will try. Because he's just been told that he is John's "Best Friend", not doing this is no longer an option. Echoing down the corridors of his Mind Palace he hears both a sneering baritone laugh and a cry of distress.

_I'm never going to get through this._

* * *

**Author's Note**: * Why Sherlock never remembers Lestrade's first name is covered in _Got My Eye on You_, Chapter 10


End file.
